


Don't You Know Not to Play With Fire?

by blarfkey



Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types, Pocket Monsters: X & Y | Pokemon X & Y Versions
Genre: F/M, I tried to make this as gender-neutral as possible, M/M, Rival Relationship, The player character is like sixteen, attack of the second person pov, but not massively underage, but that's not one of the options, flirty banter, gratuitous victory in pokemon battling, mild swearing, no sex or kissing (yet), not beta-edited, so it's really player character/team flare grunt, so sorta underage, so there may be typos I didn't catch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-02
Updated: 2015-06-02
Packaged: 2018-04-02 11:13:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4057873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blarfkey/pseuds/blarfkey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You’re a pretty tough Pokémon trainer for a kid,” he says, emphasizing kid enough to wipe your smile away. He slaps a few bills into your hand. “But watch out. I’m not the only member of Team Flare.”</p><p>Oh Great. There are more of these morons here?</p><p>“I’m not worried,” you say. “And I’m not a kid.”</p><p>As you strut past him, you can feel him staring at your butt and hear his barely audible mutter, “You sure aren’t.”</p><p>Somehow you are grinning.</p><p> </p><p>In which the fates of the universe conspire to match you up with the same annoying, completely inept (and completely adorable) grunt. Not that you mind so much.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't You Know Not to Play With Fire?

**Author's Note:**

> So when I first got Pokemon X, I started joking that the Team Flare Grunt that kept popping up was secretly in love with me. I mean, I couldn't remember playing a Pokemon game up until that point where I ran into the same grunt (and not a high level grunt) over and over again. I loved it. I loved it so much that I actually sat down and wrote my first publishable piece of fanfiction over it. Then I buried it in one of my writing folders and forgot all about it. Until now.
> 
> Tada!

The first time you see him in Glittering Cave he’s not very impressive. Everything about him is eye-stabbingly bright crimson, from his suit to his hair to his stupid sunglasses, and that ridiculous belt buckle.

It takes him a second to notice you (really, you could have ambushed him if you wanted to) before he puffs his chest out and struts towards you.

 “Well well what do we have here? A nosy trainer has come poking around.”

His bravado might be slightly intimidating if you couldn’t see the dark roots in his gelled hairline. Instead, you shift on your feet impatiently because you have a date with a badass ice dinosaur fossil and this idiot is keeping you from it.

The less than terrified expression on your face must be noticeable, because he puts a hand on his hip and is possibly glaring at you (not that you could tell with those sunglasses).

“Listen up! We’re the fashionable team whose very name has people trembling in fear. Team Flare!”

Team flair sounds like those fashion critics for award shows. Or maybe it’s Team Flare, like fire? That makes more sense, actually, but what does fire have to fashion?

“Team Flare’s goal is to make it so we’re the only ones who are happy. We don’t care one bit about what happens to trainers or Pokémon. Get out of here, kid. Don’t you know not to play with fire?”

Wow. What an asshole. You look forward to beating the shit out of his Pokemon team.

“Get ‘em, Houndour!”

And then. And then he frames his face with his hands like he’s in a pop music video. You almost can’t take him seriously. The way his houndour looks at him, it can’t take him seriously either but it has no choice.

You throw out your Pancham and the battle is embarrassingly short. The guy shakes his head and falls to his knees like a five year old and then gapes up at you.

“You may have beaten me but when I lose, I go out in style,” he says.

You snicker a little at the irony. He looks down at his stance and hurriedly gets up, brushing the knees of his precious trousers. He digs his wallet out.

“You’re a pretty tough Pokémon trainer for a kid,” he says, emphasizing kid enough to wipe your smile away. He slaps a few bills into your hand. “But watch out. I’m not the only member of Team Flare.”

Oh Great. There are more of these morons here?

“I’m not worried,” you say. “And I’m not a kid.”

As you strut past him, you can feel him staring at your butt and hear his barely audible mutter, “You sure aren’t.”

Somehow you are grinning.

 

The next time you see him, you are innocently minding your own business on Menhir Trail. Well, you were minding your own business until you spot Team Flare nosing around those giant stones. You try to sneak up on them, but one of them spots you right away. There is no question who the grunt blocking your path is. He still hasn’t re-dyed his roots.

His eyebrows jump above his sunglasses the moment he spots you. They match his dark roots. “Stop right there, I remember you. You’re the one who foiled our fossil finding plans!”

“ _Your_ fossil finding plans!” you cry. “One of those was legally mine!”

“Technicality,” he says. He crosses his arms. “Now you’re standing around these stones. What for? Do you have any idea what they even are?”

No. You purse your lips in a thin line.

“Of course you don’t.” He smirks. You want to slap him. “You know nothing about the legend of three thousand years ago that says . . .” He trails off and then taps his chin with a gloved finger. “What does it say?” he mutters.

 Your gaze strays to his chin. Long, slender fingers are hot. Gloves are hot. This guy has both.

“Whatever,” he says finally. “Who cares about that? Now it’s time for my sweet revenge . . . with style.”

He does his stupid hand pose and you roll your eyes.

Round two lasts barely longer than round one. His Pokémon have grown a few levels, but they still aren’t a match for you and your new fossil Pokémon (that he definitely noticed with a pout). Yet again he falls to his knees, despite the risk of grass stains. For someone who loves fashion, he sure doesn’t take care of his suit.

“You’ve beaten me . . . .again.”

You hold your hand out for your prize money. Grumbling, he gets to his feet and pulls his wallet out.

“How could I lose _-again -_ to a little punk like you?” He shoves the money into your hands, the smooth leather of his gloves brushing against your fingers.

“Maybe you just suck,” you offer with a cheery smile

“Har har har. What are you, some kind of trainer prodigy?”

“I just have more than two Pokémon. Tell me, are there any more of your friends hanging around? I could use some cash.”

He’s about to give a nasty retort when his holocaster goes off. He takes a few steps to the side, nods his head and says, “Roger that!”

“And on that note, it’s time for me to scram – with style.” He salutes you and then takes off.

You feel an odd sort of plummeting as you watch him go. Is this . . . _disappointment_? None of the other Team Flare members trade witty banter with you. They just want to crush you and move on. This guy is fun.

“You don’t have any style,” you call out after him.

“Sweetheart – I’ve got _all_ the style.”

Somehow you are grinning – again.

 

Either Kalos is the smallest region in the world, or Team Flare needs recruiting lessons because out of all the Flare grunts you could have run into in the middle of the desert, it’s _him._

And you are not in the least bit upset about it. Odd, that.

“Aw Christ,” you hear him mutter as you approach him. You grin.

 “What did you do to get stuck here?” you ask.

He whips his sunglasses off to wipe them on his jacket. The irises of his eyes are a startling green, your favorite color. “Apparently when you’ve been beaten by the same punk kid twice, they don’t trust you to guard the important stuff.”

You almost feel bad. Almost. “That’s tragic, that really is.”

He shrugs. “I still look good and they still pay me. That’s all that matters.”

You take a couple well measured steps towards him. A hint of his cologne hits you, tempts you to come closer. “Well since you’re used to losing, can we skip to the part where you tell me how to get into the power plant?”

“ _Losing?!_ That was beginner’s luck, angel face.” He leans in close enough to allow yourself a delicious intake of aftershave. “I am a member of the stylish Team Flare and I’m going to win in _style_.”

“And if you lose?”

He slips off his sunglasses again and appraises you. You study him in return, the smooth planes of his face, his dark eyelashes, the hint of dark stubble on his chin and try to pretend that it doesn’t affect you.

“If I lose, then _maybe_ I’ll let you in that power plant. But if I win . . .then I get to buy you a drink at any café of your choosing.”

You can’t deny it – a thrill shoots up your spine, turns your stomach into a riot of Butterfree. It’s almost enough to entertain the idea of losing on purpose. You can’t, of course. People in Lumiose need power and you need to beat that gym.

“It’s a deal,” you say. “But only if you skip that stupid pose.”

He slips back on his sunglasses and does the stupid pose – while smirking.

Both of his Pokémon have evolved by now and they put up much more of a fight than you expected. In fact, his Golbat actually knocks out two of your Pokémon before you sic your Pikachu on it. It seems a date is proper motivation to win now. It doesn’t last very long after that. Your opponent sinks onto his knees with a groan.

“You’ve beaten me again . . . and again. But I will always go out in style.”

“It’s not very stylish to put on a temper tantrum,” you tell him.

He gets to his feet, brushes his pants. “Now I will _stylishly_ run away.”

Wait, what? Did you just get tricked by an attractive grunt?! That bastard! He won’t get very far before you kill him.

Only he doesn’t run away. He takes five steps across the bridge and then stops. “Huh. Where’s my power plant pass?” He lazily pats at his pockets. “Oh no,” he says in deep sarcasm, “did I drop my power plant pass somewhere? I know what I’ll do. I’ll make a stylish deduction. I must have _dropped it_ when I was feeling around that boulder _nine steps east_ of where I’m standing.” He gives a pointed look in your direction. “If only I had a _dowsing machine_. Then I could find it.”

You grin and blow him a kiss. He catches it in a gloved hand.

“Have fun wrecking my compatriots,” he calls after you.

“I always do!”

 

The Pokeball factory – now that’s just personal. What the hell is Team Flare even doing at this place? As your rival robs you of your first battle with Team Flare, you find your replacement further up the stairs. This time you don’t have to look at his roots to know that it’s him.  What is he doing here? You thought Team Flare banned him from anything important.

Suddenly the day feels brighter. But of course, he can’t know that, so you clamp down on the urge to smile. Instead you stand across from him and fold your arms, trying to look as smug as possible.

“I think you’re a masochist,” you say.

He looks over your shoulder at the battle your rival is embroiled in and then places a finger on his lips. “Shh. I’m just a nameless Team Flare Grunt. I’ve yet to make a name for myself.”

He pulls up his sunglasses long enough to wink at you. The corners of your lips quirk up. Ah. So he snuck in here.

“Shall the beating commence?” You say.

“It shall.” He bows and then throws out a Toxicroak. Perhaps his other two Pokémon got fed up? Well, they deserve a break from you.

But not this guy. You throw out your Talonflame and it takes care of the Toxicroak in one hit. His trainer doesn’t look the least bit surprised, but he falls on his knees in typical Team Flare fashion.

“Oh no,” he says in that same sarcastic tone that led you into the power plant. “I’m a nameless grunt who lost. I’ve yet to make a name for myself.”

You bit down a giggle. “Alright. Pay up and move.”

He stands up and brushes his knees. No telling how dirty this factory floor is. “Oh, I’ll pay up, sweetheart, but I ain’t moving.”

“Excuse me?” You look up at him. He’s got several inches on you and probably several pounds, though there’s no telling how lanky he is underneath that suit. But you could probably take him. Maybe.

“It’s bad enough I let you beat me, but I’m not about to spoil my cover by letting you waltz through here like you own the place.”

“ _Let me_ beat you?!”

He pulls several bills from his wallet, folds them, and then kisses them before handing it to you. Despite the fluttering in your stomach, you accept the bills with a smile and then ram your elbow in his stomach.  As he doubles over, you shove your way past him, but you don’t get very far. An arm shoots out and grabs the back of your shirt. The collar chokes you for a second and then you’re yanked against something tall and warm, a lean arm draped across your waist.

“I don’t think so,” he murmurs in your ear. Goosebumps erupt on your arm. “I see that’s my reward for being gentlemanly.”

You scoff. “A gentleman would let me through.”

“Then I guess I’m not cut out for such a profession.” He chuckles against the shell of your ear. You have to fight off the resulting shiver.

He releases you and grins. “Have fun riding the conveyor belts.”

You try pouting “I’m going to get my clothes dirty.”

“That’s tragic, that really is.” He shoves you towards the stairs.

You send him one last glare before you get to work clearing this place out.

Of course, all your friends come in at the last minute when you don’t need their help. But whatever, they’re well-meaning and only your self-professed rival is on your level anyway. You’re not sure if Trevor even _has_ Pokémon or if he just carries around a pokedex.

By now, you have the sinking feeling that Team Flare is up to something seriously awful. What does this mean for your . . . friend? Rival? Frival? What is his limit for atrocities, or does he even have one? Does something sinister lay underneath his inept and flirtatious exterior? These thoughts haunt you as you leave the factory.

When you spot him hanging out after all the other Team Flare grunts cleared out, you almost don’t approach him. But then you realize something. He’s bigger and stronger than you; he could have hurt you without the use of his Pokémon. He paid up after every battle, he let you in the power plant knowing that you would dismantle their entire operation.

He stands there, hands on his hips, staring out into space. You sneak up behind him.

“You’re not chasing us?”

He jumps, then spins around. His shoulder relax when he sees you.

"I thought if I just stood there and looked hot, you’d come to me. I see it worked.”

“You look like they ditched you.”

He puts his hands on his hips. “Man, these suits are hard to run in. I’ll never catch up to those kids.”

He’s practically got DEFLECTION written on his forehead. “Did they really ditch you?”

“No. I – ” he sighs heavily “. . .ditched them.”

“You did _what?_ ” Your mouth drops open.

He runs a hand through his dyed hair, mussing the gel and not caring. That’s how you know something is wrong. After a moment of hesitation, he pulls you to the side of the house and leans in and whispers, “Team Flare is crazy.”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” you whisper back.

He pulls his sunglasses off. His green eyes are dark and serious. There is no playful wink or smug grin in them. “You don’t understand. Team Flare is fucking crazy train _psycho_ lead by a guy who should have a disorder named after him. I thought all that crap about making the world a beautiful place with only Team Flare in it was just . . .you know, _crap._ Just a bunch of bullshit to convince dumbasses like me into giving them five million pokeyen for a fucking red suit.”

“Why did you even join?” you ask.

He ran a hand through his hair again. “They said I would make a ton of money. And the suit looked good on me. But it wasn’t crap, kid. They are dead serious. Lysandre and Team Flare fully intend on wiping out anyone not associated with them. We’re talking mass genocide. I can’t deal with that shit. I just wanted money and a cool suit!”

He’s almost hyper ventilating now. You put a hand on his chest.

“Whoa. Cool it. It’s going to be okay,” you say, even though your stomach feels like a lead weight and you might have to go somewhere and privately upchuck your breakfast. “I’ll take care of it.”

He lets out a harsh bark of laughter. “ _You_. You’re a kid – young adult – _whatever._ You can’t handle them!” He grips your shoulder. “ Go _home._ Be _safe._ Get the hell out of here and don’t look back.”

You shove his hand off you. “Damn it, I’m _not_ a kid!” you hiss. “ I’ve got six gym badges! I’m gonna fight the champion. I’m gonna _win_. I got what it takes. I _don’t lose._ Lysandre’s got no clue who he is dealing with.”

He stares at you, straight in your eyes, long and hard. His lips are set in a thin line. Finally he heaves another sigh. “Okay. Fine. You’re right. You’re not just a kid. I’m sorry. With fight like that, you’re more than capable of handling whatever you want. Just . . .Lysandre  got a lot of powerful Pokemon. I know you think you’re hot shit with all those gym badges, but still.” He reaches out and cups your face. “Be careful.”

Suddenly it feels like all the oxygen has vacated the area. You nod.

“I will. I’ll kick his ass.”

He smiles. “That’s my angel face. Sorry – my very capable young adult friend.”

An idea pops in your head. You rummage in your bag and pull out a pen and a stray napkin. “This is my holocaster number. When it’s all over . . .let me know you’re still around.”

He takes it and folds it carefully into his front pocket. “Will do. Now get. Scram. You got work to do.”

You nod. It feels like you might not see him again, which is stupid. You swallow a thick lump in your throat and then turn to leave and feel his hand close around your wrist.

“Good luck.” He kisses the tips of your fingers in true gentleman fashion.

It’s the last you see of him for some time.

 

A few days after the parade, your holocastor goes off in the middle of a fight with some smarmy rich brat at the Battle Chateau.

“Hold it!” You cry. “I gotta take this.”

“You can _not_ be serious,” Duchess Robin sniffs.

“Yes. Yes I am.” You take a few steps to the side and answer the holocaster. There is no face, but you know the voice instantly.

“Ah. Looks like you’re not too famous to talk me after all. I thought I might have to go through an assistant.”

Your smile is unrestrained, as is the relief that floods you at the sound of his voice. It looks like you both made it through.

“Unfortunately I don’t have one yet. You should interview for it. It’s not like you got other job offers.”

“I don’t need handouts from you, sweetheart.”

“Good. Then you can buy me a drink. You owe me one.”

“I don’t owe you shit. I lost that battle, remember.”

“I’ll meet you at Café Soleil. Your Golbat can fly, can’t it? Or do you need me to pick you up?”

“I can get there,” came his disgruntled reply.

You hang up and turn back to Robin. “Sorry. We’ll have to finish this later.”

Her mouth forms a perfect little o of outrage. “I don’t _think_ so! Just because you’re the Champion does _not_ mean that you can just walk out in the middle of battle! I know you’re just a commoner but surely you will have learned some manners by now—How dare you walk away from me while I am speaking!”

You and Greninja leave her spluttering in the foyer. Though you look indifferent on the outside, mentally you are frantically flipping through every outfit you own. You rush to the nearest Pokecenter in Lumiose and quickly throw on your best outfit and delineate on getting another haircut. Staring at your reflection in the mirror, you take a minute to compose the nerves spazzing in your stomach.

For Arceus’s sake, get it together! You can’t let him know how happy you are to see him. Then he’ll get cocky. After several deep breaths, you are able to stroll out of the Pokecenter and into the Café like you’re not going out on a maybe-date with a frival whose name you still don’t know. You take a seat by the window and glance through your pokedex.

He arrives a few minutes after you do. His mouth remains indifferent but his eyes light up when they see you. You clamp down on your lips to keep them from spreading into a wide grin.

 If he didn’t wear the suit, you wouldn’t recognize him. His hair has been dyed to a more natural dark brown, and hangs in soft bangs around his eyes. His sunglasses are resting atop his hair, his tie is loose.

“Why are you still wearing the suit,” you ask with a wrinkled nose.

“I paid a lot of money for this suit. Besides, it makes me look cool.”

He takes his jacket off and slings it across the back of his chair. Gloves, loose tie, crisp dress shirt. He is hitting all of your buttons and he doesn’t even know it.

“I uh, saw your parade. Very fancy. I was there, actually, among your legion of rabid fans.”

You picture him, the only bright red suit in the entire crowd, craning his neck to get a look at you. The corners of your lips twitch.

“Well I did save the world. I deserved a parade,” you say.

He smiles at you, soft and genuine. “Can’t say I disagree. You kicked a lot of ass out there. I’m proud of you.”

You hide your blush in a deep drink of mocha. “Thanks.”

The two of you are quiet for a moment. You sip your mocha and pretend you don’t notice him watching you sip your mocha. There is something like awe in the way he looks at you.

It suddenly dawns on you. “I don’t know your name.”

“I know yours. It was all over the T.V.”

“Well that’s hardly fair, now is it? C’mon. What’s your name?”

Silence. Long, awkward silence. He fiddles with the salt packets. You cross your arms.

“Seriously? It can’t be worse that Inept Team Flare Grunt, which is what you’re called in my head.”

“It’s Jacques. Okay? Jacques.” He keeps his gaze locked outside the window.

You’re a little disappointed. “That’s it? What’s so bad about Jacques? I can’t make fun of it.”

“It’s got no flair. It’s totally boring.” He rips a sugar packet onto a saucer and dips his finger in it.

“Well you’re not boring so I wouldn’t worry too much,” you tell him.

There’s that gaze of awe again. Does he even know he’s doing that?

“Let’s get out of here,” he says. “Let’s go do something.”

You set your cup down, ready to leave. “Like what?”

“I don’t care. Sight see. Race some go-goats. We could rent a hotel room.” He waggles his eyebrows. “But no more trainer battles. My poor Houndoom needs therapy enough as it is.”

“We could go shopping,” you say. “You know, if you wouldn’t die of shame and boredom.”

"Are you kidding me? I live for style. Let’s go shopping.” He gets up and slaps a few bills on the table for your mocha.

“Excellent. You need some new clothes” You drain the last of your drink and follow him to the exit.

He glares at you while holding the door. “ _Me?_ Do I need to remind you how much this suit costs? My suit is hot.”

“It’s a hot mess.” The spring sunshine is as blinding as his suit. You squint up at him and steal his red sunglasses. Much better.

“Those are _mine_ , thank you.”

“I’ll buy you another pair. I’ve got more money than I know what to do with. C’mon.” You grab his hand and lead him towards the boutique.

His hand feels warm and reassuring.

               

It’s the start of a very beautiful relationship.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Anyone is more than welcome to hit me up on Tumblr:
> 
> www.blarfkey.tumblr.com


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